


The Kindness of Strangers

by Marta



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quite a lot can go wrong in 110 days. Boromir on the road to Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindness of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> November, 3018 T.A.

Sitting around the fire, Boromir felt its warmth wash over him. He had lived too much of his life back in Minas Tirith driven from moment to moment, rarely appreciating the gifts each beat in time offered. It would have been an indulgence to simply sit here like this, with no task at hand. He did have a task, sharpening the shearing-knives of the family of shepherds who had shown him hospitality these last few weeks. It kept his hands busy and, more importantly, kept him from thinking of himself as a beggar, taking much and giving nothing in return.

Still, it was far from the all-absorbing work he had known in Minas Tirith. Troop deployments, funding schemes, battle-plans, the other labors of a Captain-General - these demanded all his attention and left him little attention for idle thoughts. Or time; in Gondor even his leisure was often driven to some end. The holiday feasts, when he must woo Gondor's daughters with an eye toward marriage. Or the state dinners that required wooing of a different kind, where he must make small-talk with foreign dignitaries and so strengthen Gondor's alliances.

No, in Eriador such duties held little sway. One task alone was left to him, to seek for the sword that was broken, but for the moment even that was beyond his reach. He tested his ankle, putting some pressure on it as if to stand, but even that made him wince. Three weeks ago he had thought to cross a field rather than follow the wide loop of the road and had twisted his ankle in a rabbit-hole. Such a little thing! But it had kept him laid up among this shepherds' family while his ankle healed itself.

He should have known better than to leave the road, for little enough had grown right on this ill-fated quest. Ill-fated! That word struck Boromir, for back in Minas Tirith he would never have used such a luck. He remembered another evening spent by another fire-side, when he and Carchil had tended to their gear and watched the stars wheel overhead. They had spoken of _fate_ , then. Boromir had never put much stock in the concept, before. That was what superstitious old wives called the story of their lives, as if lives had a story to tell. As if fortune was a game of chance played with weighted dice.

He had set out from Gondor with two companions: Carchil, his squire since he was first named captain two decades ago, and Eärgund, a woodsman from his brother's company of Ithilien rangers. Whatever romantic notions Boromir might have had of a lone hero going off alone on some great quest, he had known it was foolish for the steward's heir to venture unguarded into the wilderness beyond Rohan. Even Beren had taken Finrod with him, after all. And three had seemed a reasonable enough number: not so large they would attract the notice of evil eyes, but small enough to split the night's watch between them.

Now, though... in the last three months nothing seemed to have gone right, and _ill-fated_ seemed the only adequate description. They had not even reached Tharbad before Eärgund fell. Boromir did not think he would soon forget that sight. They had been stalking a young boar when the beast had turned and attacked him. Carchil had finished off the beast and Boromir had done his best to tend to Eärgund's wounds, but the boar's teeth had ripped at Eärgund's throat, and Boromir could do nothing but stand by, watching him gasp for air.

Just now, Boromir was glad his hands were busy. He closed his eyes, focusing on the slow scrape of the shearing-blade against the whetting stone. A small mercy, this task he could turn to. He had not known Eärgund well, but he was a man of Gondor, a good soldier and a friend of his brother's. Boromir had sent many men to their deaths these last few years, but it had been long years since he had actually seen one of them die.

Bad fortune had dogged him ever since they left Rohan. He and Carchil had lost their horses crossing Tharbad, and Boromir's coin-purse had been stolen at that same town's market. Their grain-bags had ripped and their flasks had someone punctured, so they had to scavenge for good food and water. Carchil, too, had taken sick not a week before Boromir had turned his ankle, and he had left Carchil behind in Bree so he could heal up on his own time. How did he fare, Boromir wondered? Carchil had not seemed deadly ill, but on a journey such as this one, Boromir could not be too sure!

For all that, though, Boromir could not quite regret the dream that had brought him north from Gondor. Boromir had discovered a rich world beyond the edges of the map. There were hunters here, and furriers, and well-tilled fields with houses full to the brim with bright-eyed children. And orcs and trolls and other foul creatures, to be sure, but that reality could not blind him to the good and generous folk who had time and again welcomed him and Carchil into their homes.

He had traded a tunic for a pair of sturdy boots when Carchil had worn a hole through his boot's sole. The widow who had offered the trade might have clung to them, for her husband had worn them not so long ago, but she had seen Carchil's need and given them freely. That generosity had warmed his heart, for he was not sure people in Gondor would give so freely to a stranger in need. For a fellow man of Gondor? No doubt. But here Boromir had only his claim as a free man of the West. Usually, that was enough.

He had learned, too, the simple joys of simple tasks: of caring for himself. He could orchestrate battles and help govern a realm well enough, but ordering his own kit? That skill had always seemed beneath him. Still, when his current hosts had taught him how to darn socks, he had taken to it with a passion. Ah, but if his nanny could see him at it! She had tried to teach him in his youth, but Boromir had scoffed at her, declaring that one such as he would always be busy with more important tasks. He quite liked the quiet hours spent by a fire tending to his gear.

He knew that he would have to leave this house soon enough. He knew his duty, and knew that he must discharge his quest and return home as quickly as he could. He would do that as soon as his ankle was mended. Still, right at this moment, Boromir was glad for the delay.

**Author's Note:**

> Boromir said at the council of Elrond that "a hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone." I know that's canon, but my muse simply refuses to accept that Denethor would send his heir out on a dangerous quest without even a companion or two to split watches with. Ergo, OC's!
> 
> Boromir's past adventures in sock!fic, as well as the referenced nanny, are borrowed from EdorasLass. See in particular "A Thankless Task" (http://edoraslass.livejournal.com/114922.html) and "A Hopeless Skill" (http://edoraslass.livejournal.com/99751.html).


End file.
